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Ch. 8: Mindy
Back to The Men in Brown It was Saturday. Chris had never been so glad to see the weekend before. “And we thought public school was hard.” he groused happily to his brother. It was a deliciously warm day, a steamy summery sort of morning that promises heat. “I know, under Root it’s like torture.” “Under Root!” “Shut up, you know he doesn’t like that.” “He’s not around.” “Say, let’s ask Mom if we can go to Mindy’s!” said Stephen. “Oh yeah, that friend you told me about. I hope she’s nice. I can’t stand any more Charlene for a while.” Mom giving a grumbled consent as long as they were back for Little League at 2:00 (at which more groans went up), the boys changed to shorts and put towels in a backpack: if she wasn’t in they were hitting the beach. “Yeah, and we’d better do it early before all the spotted leopards show up.” said Stephen. The term arose from when a beautiful young woman in a revealing leopard print bikini had camped next to them, and ever since immodestly-dressed girls were called spotted leopards. Stephen remembered Mindy’s last name, and the phone book revealed her address as 273 Rockwell. The boys headed across the street and up the old paved mill drive. The sumacs and locust and aspen thickets had been cut down and were drying brown, and rubble was being bulldozed into the shallow swamp marking the millpond. Past the open area and upstream from the pool where they met Ronnie Wendy, they entered a small square of oak forest between Woodland and Lake Sts, below the spillway. The stream flowed in a bouldery bed, sometimes over stretches of flowing bare bedrock. It was easy to cross, and then came a hard scramble up the clifflike earthy bank that rose for fifteen feet on the far side, just under Lake St. Rockwell joined just above the old stone house and the downhill elbow curve of Lake St, at an ancient decrepit house with bittersweet vines growing in some of the windows. 273 turned out to be a square white house with a square collonaded verenda, low and comfortable, a white rail fence beside the road and many flowering trees in the yard. Mindy answered the door herself, to the boys’ relief. “Hey! Stephen!” she greeted with a genuine smile. She wore shorts and a swimsuit top, and looked incredibly long and lanky. “Is this your brother?” “Yeah, I’m Chris. Hi.” “Nice to meet you.” she said. “You guys look like you’re heading to the beach. Can I join you?” “Uh, sure.” “I’d ask you in, but Mom’s not home and Dad is sleeping.” She gave a half-fond half-condescending smile as she said this. “Friday night, bar time. Mom doesn’t like it much.” “He gets drunk?” said Chris. “He’s not your average drunk.” Mindy said critically. “He gets even quieter and glummer; that’s about all. Then he sleeps. I guess we have it lucky. He only does it Fridays. Mom insists on that. The other evenings she manages to keep him busy playing with me.” Again that smile. “Let me grab some stuff. Be right back.” She came out five minutes later with a beach bag slung over one shoulder. “I found the cookies.” she said conspiratorially. “So I stole some. I’ll ask Mom’s permission when she gets back. What’s that called in the mystery novels, '' post factum'' or something? After the fact?” The boys shrugged. “So, like, how was it during the Big Scare for you guys?” she said excitedly. “It was thrilling. And scary, too, cause I was thinking Columbine all the time they were herding us outside. Where’ve you been ever since, Stephen? I haven’t seen you at school.” “Mom pulled us out and hired a tutor.” said Chris before Stephen could say anything. “Cool! What’s he like? Does he give you homework? Do I know him?” “His name is, of all things, Root.” said Stephen. “Mr. Van Root. And he gets really analytical with you if you make fun of it.” “Root.” breathed Mindy. “That is such an awesome name. It sounds like some symbolic elemental character in '' The Dark is Rising '' or something.” “Holy cow, you read that?” Chris exclaimed. “After I saw '' Seeker'' on video, yeah.” laughed Mindy. “The book’s way more awesomer. I think that Merriman guy is Merlin, isn’t he? I loved how the Old Ones were in the movie. First half, at least. The way they seem like gruff common but slightly mysterious construction workers and farmers, and then suddenly they’re pulling out folding crossbows and ancient muskets and swords.” “We’ve read Lord of the Rings.” “Yeah, I have got to do that.” agreed Mindy. “I watched the movies. Are they different from the book?” “Don’t get us started!” “Oh yeah, you were gonna tell me about Mr. Root. What’s he like? Is he mysterious?” “He’s old with a white beard, and long straight hair, and looks a little owlish. Very scary dark eyes. He’s usually serious and a little prim. Sometimes he gets sarcastic, but that’s the closest he gets to jokes.” said Chris. “And he tells us stories for literature class.” “And he gives us torture the rest of the day. He has a really odd curriculum and it’s like SO hard. But at least we don’t have to worry about the Cluster Bombs.” “Did you hear? They were the ones killed!” exclaimed Mindy. “In the '' boys room! '' With a '' sword!” “That was Gilbert.” said Chris. “Your school got arrows. And fists.” “Funny, I don’t see calls for bans on medieval weapons.” said Mindy tartly. “Oh, you should hear my dad going on that. He was yelling the other night that if he hears one more word about the Winsted massacre he’s going to shoot some legislators with a hunting bow.” “I know, it’s getting seriously overkilled, you know? I was biking over by the Green, and I saw a funny-looking mess on the grass. Turned out to be a whole bunch of candles just randomly stuck into the ground in a circle and allowed to burn out. Guess what happens? Great big blobs of wax all over the grass! I know it was probably some dumb candlelight vigil thingy, but it looks like a bunch of really messy witches were at work there. It’s so stupid.” She paused. “Do you think dragons did it?” she asked eagerly, meaning the school deaths. “Has to be.” said Stephen. “We’ve seen enough weirdness not to be surprised.” “I wonder who the dragons are.” said Mindy. “It would be so cool to meet one. Do they stay dragon, or go back and forth?” “Frankly, I don’t really want to know.” said Chris. “Root tells us such good tales. It’s funny how he does it; he’ll start talking in a dreamy voice and then his words start arranging themselves into poetry and he starts to murmer, and then all at once he’s chanting.” “Really epic stuff, too.” said Stephen. “How does it go? Do you remember how any of it went, Chris?” They had reached the spillway by now. Taking off shoes and socks the children splished through the shallow overflow where the road crossed the dam, ignoring the footbridge. “Um, let’s see, I remember the tune. Sort of like a rising throb, then rolling, falling to a rumble like thunder. ''Dont – duh – dont – da – dun – da – dun - dun, Doon – un – don – dun – dun – da - doom-doom. Over and over again. Sometimes it variates. It’s sounds really terrible when he gets going.” “I thought you liked it.” “Oh, come on, don’t you know what '' terrible'' means?” Christopher complained as they put on their shoes. “It means inspiring terror, majestic, awesome. I read some guy on the forums arguing that awful, terrible and awesome are synonyms.” “Well, not the way it’s used nowadays.” said Mindy. “But, wow, that sounds epic. I wish I could hear him singing that. What are the stories about?” “He’s from Finland, too, he says. He tells us stories about this old—um—well, he’s not exactly a wizard, and he’s not a magician, he sings to things and they obey. Sang he up a boat of copper, sang he then fishhooks of silver…Hey, I did remember some of it!” “Yay.” applauded Mindy. “But anyway, his name is Vainay-moy-nen. Hard to say it. Root has this weird way of pronouncing it. He’s a singer. One time he was challenged in song by this vain guy, and he let the guy sing first, but all he could sing was obvious stuff like Birds build nests; fish swim….” '' “No, it was '' Iron rusts, and rusting weakens!” '' howled Stephen, bending over laughing. '' '' “Bitter is the taste of lemonnnnn….” sang Chris. “I thought it was umber.” said Stephen. “I don’t know what umber is; lemon sounds funnier.” “Umber’s a color, right?” said Mindy. “Or maybe a dye. That would be pretty bitter.” “I don’t think anybody in ancient Finland had lemons.” said Stephen. “Well, maybe they imported a few from Italy!” said Mindy. “Riiight, clear over the Alps, sure.” “You were telling me about those singers.” she retorted. “Oh yeah, way off topic, anyway, Väinämöinen finally got so irritated he sang back. That’s where things get creepy. He sang so powerfully the cliffs broke and sea-waves tossed and rocks shattered all around them, and the clothes and weapons of Youkahainen started transforming into birds and bushes and gleams of lightning, and the ground under him became quicksand, and Väinämöinen sang him down into the mire, until the vain guy screamed for mercy.” They were nearing the boat launch as Chris talked. It was bright and hazy out, blue softness mantling the hills. Nobody was at the beach yet except for one family of little kids at the far end. They didn’t feel hot enough to go in, so they sat on the bench, kicking their feet and talking. Chris had told Mindy all he could remember of Root’s tales, and she said all at once, “Wait, Stephen said you’re the one who has epic dreams.” “Yeah, really creepy ones, too…” “Heyy! Someone I know!” squealed Mindy. The boys looked around to see a slim pretty brunette strolling toward them, with a lemon tanktop and white shorts. She had glasses over a rounded, lively face. The girls hugged and Mindy introduced the boys. “These are my new friends, Chris and Stephen. Guys, this is Brianna. She’s super fun.” After that they decided to combine forces to drag Brianna by main force into the water, a process which resulted in the thorough soaking of all concerned, and any talk of the Dreams was forgotten. After they got done horsing around they swam out to the buoy, Brianna freaking out every other stroke because the growing pondweed looked like a snapping-turtle. “We have a theory about the Big Scare.” Mindy said while they were all trying to cling to the buoy at once. “We think the Dragons did it.” Brianna’s pretty, ordinary face sort of went stiff. She had tossed her glasses (and clothes) back on shore, and without them Chris thought there was something queer about her eyes. Something yellow… “Why would you think that?” she said warily. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Bree, I forgot, you were there, weren’t you, at the carnival? Sensitive topic.” “Yeah, kind of.” Brianna said, letting go of the buoy and dipping under, only to resurface shrieking. “Aaa! Omi(gosh)! There’s a turtle down there!” “Is not, it’s only seaweed.” “No, it was definitely a turtle, I’m getting out!” But the water was too nice for her to carry out her threat, and they stayed in at shoulder-height and played chicken fights and splash wars. Mindy plunged under when they were talking, swam to Brianna and grabbed her foot. Brianna squawked and flapped about like a panicky chicken, making the boys howl with merriment. “Well, it could have been a turtle!” “You’re so funny.” said Chris. Mindy went under again. “Aa! Where is that chick?!” Brianna squawked, swimming away for dear life. Mindy surfaced, grinning. “Hey, it’s Bell!” she screamed, as two kids on bicycles pulled up. The girl was about Mindy’s age, 12 or so, slight and slender with a rather dark complexion contrasting with her pale curly hair. The boy was pale, sandy-haired and so nodescript you barely noticed him. Mindy splashed out of the water, sopping wet, and squeezed Bell as hard as she could, trying to soak her. Chris looked again and saw—no one. Bell was alone. There was no bike, and no boy on a bike. Had he imagined it? Brianna was getting cold, so she and the boys came on shore while Bell and Mindy raced back in. They toweled dry and sat around, laughing at the antics of the two girls. Brianna was so lively and so amusing that both boys liked her. “So, like, where are you boys from?” she asked all at once. Not even remembering to be cautious, Stephen said, “Oh, down by Hubbard. Corner with Boyd.” Something happened to Brianna’s eyes. “You.” she murmered. “You’re the ones…” “Wh-what are you talking about?” said Stephen. Brianna’s eyes were growing, swelling larger, yellow and powerful…they were no longer human eyes…”You are the Dreamer. The one that my Father cannot get. How pleased he will be—when I bring you to him.” “Dragon.” a quiet but ominous voice made Chris’s head jerk around, breaking the spell. So did Brianna’s. “What are you doing here?” Brianna’s eyes instantly lost their creepy inhumanity. “N-nothing.” she said warily. “Just hanging out. Can’t I even have some fun?” Chris looked back and forth, from one to the other. The pale boy was standing not three feet away. He wore a dark-green T-shirt and blue jeans. Startling in his pale and rather expressionless face, his eyes burned, dark and terrifying. “Only humans can have fun.” he said quietly. “Dragons…are damned.” “I’m not—not fully.” She sounded close to tears. “You won’t kill me, will you, Forest? I just wanted a day off.” “I have no quarrel with humans.” said Forest, still in that frightening quiet voice. Chris looked again at him, but the strange boy had turned and was heading over to his sister’s towel, where he sat and gazed around at the lake and the hills and the clouds, and paid them no further attention. Brianna looked shrunk within herself, glancing fearfully at him now and again: a small, frightened, ordinary girl. “What’s wrong?” Chris said to her. “Who is that kid? Why’re you so scared?” “There’s no escape.” Brianna whispered. “We can’t even pretend any more. No way out. No time off. No day at the beach. Maybe we are damned. Maybe this is what Hell is like.” “I don’t understand.” “Good.” Her voice was a small scratchy sound. “You don’t want to. You’re still a kid. You’re good. You are not a Dragon-born.” Cold stone flowed through Chris’s veins. He stared at her, at this plain pretty common high-schooler, shivers racing through him. His teeth began to chatter. ''She wasn’t human… '' “You’re one of them.” he heard himself say. “You’re a Dragon.” ''“Half ''a Dragon.” she corrected, bitterly. “Slave, is more like it. We have all these cool powers, and we have to suck our Father’s (whatever) just to have some time off. Always fighting. Always being killed. Then back to the Graveyard, where the Dragons pick on you for being little. There’s no way out.” “Yes, there is.” Forest said from his towel. “Not any more!” she shouted at him. “Ever since Austin managed to smash his head in the Dragons watch us constantly there. We can’t even die!” “That wasn’t.” Forest stopped in the middle of his sentence. He worked his mouth a few times. “Wasn’t what I meant,” he finally forced out. It was odd, as if he’d finished the thought in his head and forgot how to articulate it. “Oh really. What did you mean, Mr. Great Exalted Wood of the Road?” ''Of the Road? '' “I.” Forest wasn’t looking at her. He took a rather flustered breath and tried again. He was, Chris realized, ordinarily shy to the point of taciturnity. “I meant you can always repent.” “No.” Brianna whispered, huddling her arms around herself. “I can’t. I can’t bear that way. They’d destroy me. Their glance is like poison. ''I’m ill, Forest…''I can’t endure goodness.” “Camilla Lane did.” said Forest. “Gerald did. We can save you, Brianna.” “No!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. “No! I can’t bear it! I won’t! I won’t go kissing up to God! I don’t f-- with religion. I don’t give a @#$. You can go to Hell!” Just like that she vanished. Badly shaken, the boys scrambled backwards, closer to Forest. He looked nothing so much as extremely uncomfortable. “What was that? Who are you? What was going on?” both boys babbled. “Uh.” said Forest. “Boys, leave him alone.” Bell called, laughing, from the water. “He doesn’t talk easily. His name’s Forest. I’m Bell.” “Uh, yeah, uh, see you at the house, Bell.” said Forest, hastily snatching his own bag and getting on his bike. He pedaled off fast. “That was really weird.” said Stephen. “Who was he? Is he…one of the Children?” “Looks like it.” murmered Chris. “You know, if Brianna really is a Dragon, we can’t tell who is and isn’t one. Maybe we better keep mum on my Dreams, and the Men in Brown.” “Good call.” Bell came plowing out of the water. She looked very like Mindy, the boys thought. The same merry, pleasant cast of face (although the features differed) and the same nice frankness of manner. “Hi guys.” she said. “Sorry about that. Forest is my brother, and he’s so quiet it’s hard for him to explain things. What were you trying to ask him?” “Yeah, and how the heck did Brianna leave so quick?” said Mindy. “I barely glanced away two seconds and she’s gone. What did you say to her?” “She’s one of the Dragons.” said Chris. Mindy gave them a weird look, so Chris told her most of the entire incident. Bell listened intently, her hair, stringy from damp, hanging about her oddly darkish face. She had peculiar tattoos on her wrists, like curliques and elaborate patterned vines coiling up her forearms, glistening. “Wow, I’m amazed, Forest actually opened his mouth.” she commented. “Why did she call him '' Wood?” “That’s his title.” Bell said. “The Wood of the Road. I am of the Churches.” “Wait, wait, you’re saying '' Bree '' is a dragon?” Mindy exclaimed. “Swear to God?” Bell and the boys exchanged a look. “I suppose that qualifies as serious enough.” Bell said. “Huh?” said Mindy. “We’re Christian.” said Christopher. “I thought so. So are we. We go to the Baptist churches.” Bell told him. “We’re from the Faith Living Church. You know, the one that uses the storefront on Main St.” “It’s not one of the Five.” said Bell. “Is Forest of the Men in Brown?” Chris blurted. “I don’t think he’s that old.” said Bell dryly. “I mean, I know Ronnie is, but Forest only wears brown half the time. What makes you think so?” '' “The Hill and the Wood, the House of the Hood…” said Chris. “Oh yes, Wimbledon’s famous rhyme. Ronnie told it to me. But no, I think ''Wood applied to Beleg more than to Forest.” “What the heck are you guys talking about?” said a bewildered Mindy. “Uhh…movie quotes.” said Chris quickly. '' '' '' '' The witch hazels tossed in the cold damp wind. Oaks moaned faintly overhead, their low tangled branches bending only at the tips, their small papery leaves as tattered as if newly emerging from an assault by an army of bugs. Everything was grey and green, grey boles and green leaves and grey lead sky seeming to stoop down to scrape the crouching trees. '' '' An ancient man stood where two enormous trees reared like gateposts, a brief glimpse of a stony height grown with scattered pines visible through them. He was unbowed, great of stature, in an odd sort of robed tunic, black leggings and great black boots beneath it gaitered and laced with silver. His eyes burned, distant and far-seeing, amid his bearded face: a prophet's eyes. '' '' "Welcome, Christopher." the man said. "You come at last to Alderly Edge." '' '' "You can see me?" the boy said, startled. '' '' "I am a seer. Of course I can see you." He seemed to be speaking in Latin, but as was usual in these dreams Chris understood him perfectly. '' '' "Who are you? Are there more Sleepers here?" '' '' "The mightiest of them all." the Seer answered. "Some of his knights are laid here, and some there, in divers places across the length of Britainnia; but here they all will repair when their King is awakened. I cannot See at will. They have not told me what stirreth abroad. So I must ask thee: does the White Tree grow?" '' '' "The White Tree walks." '' '' The stranger's eyes widened. "Tell me further. Do the statues yawn?" '' '' "They have all sitten up." '' '' The stranger took a heavy breath. "Tell me one thing further. Do the Seven Stars shine?" '' '' "The Seven Stars gleam upon their banner." '' '' The man rose to his full height. He threw up his arms, and the trees leaned suddenly to either side. "The hour is here." he said in a voice like an earthquake. "Come, child. It is time to awaken the greatest of the Sleepers, second only to the Three Saints: and they are last to come." '' '' Attached to the two great oaks, Christopher now saw two immense gates of black iron. Thick their bars, deep their rust, intricate were their interweaving wrought designs. '' '' "The king is laid in a heavy spell, which even I can only open, but not wake." the man said. "To open these gates we must get the key laid in the egg of the rock. Come. We have a journey to make." '' '' "I thought we were waking him up. Who is he?” '' '' The man walked on, shaking his head. Chris followed him. Over thick dark moss and through queer evergreen bushes under the sparse trees they travelled, until after many miles that passed unnoticed as they do in dreams, they emerged onto a vast moor. They stood in a place of great eerie mountains, dark blue and woolly green under the leaden sky. Down they descended, till far beneath them Christopher descried the sea. In the cloudy light it was a dark grey, like slate, and chill as stone. Still farther down they descended, until they were near enough to hear the breakers spume amid the stones. Merlin led him down a treacherous path, banked with hummocks of salt-grass and moss, the sea fuming in the black rocks on his right. Then they came to a gap in the cliff, beaten into the living rock in the ages of the sea's intrusions. '' '' Quietly they crept through the strange ragged grots. A thick harsh stink of briny rot and weed hung in the air. A queer faint radiance made the walls visible. At last they came out into a cave, and there stood a mighty detached stone, shaped somehow like a person; though the shape was barely even figureoid, Chris felt it somehow, as if the stone lived. '' '' "Stone alive and rock aliving, not male nor female, he nor she, man nor woman nor fleshly thing, waken hearken unto me!" '' '' With a groaning like stony hinges stone eyelids rose. Rock dust fell as they slid back into the rock. Stone eyes like milky quartz blinked at them. A voice like the deeps of the earth said from the rock, "What dost thou seek?" '' '' "We seek the egg that thou hast laid." '' '' There was a grinding moan as the rock hitched itself to one side. "Here I laid it, here I kept it, as Niume bid unto me. Who art thou that know my secrets, speaks the words that compel me?" '' '' "I am Merlin, Myrlynn Wylde, bard and druid and magician. Blaise taught me. Ambrosius girt me. Arthur ruled me. I return. I know what I am needed to know. Be thou now freed, thy trust fulfilled; the hour awakens, the King arises!" '' '' "I thank thee, Myrlynn." sighed the rock. Stone eyes shut. Stone voice stilled. The rock was no longer living, whatever unhappy creature it held chained was now released and in its’ place. '' '' "Take the egg." said Merlin. Reaching down into the hollow the huge tor had occupied, Chris pulled out a great egg, the shell pearly and suffused with colors. '' '' "Break it." said Merlin. Chris tapped it and the shell broke like thin glass. He tipped his hand and the shards flowed out like sand, and hung in the air, and there soldified, until from his hand dangled a gossamer shirt, long-tailed, nearly transparent, silky but untearable. Colors like sunset shimmered within it, like the egg's shell had done. '' '' "This shirt will grant thee the power to walk unseen, when thou wish. When thou wear it, not dragon nor device, not engine nor spirit, not even the Black Lord himself can see or find thee. All prints will vanish. All smell erase. None save God Himself could see or find thee." '' '' Dazed, Chris slipped it on over his shirt. Merlin was still looking at him. "But you can see me." '' '' "My sight comes from God." the wizard answered with a slight smile. '' '' As they set off on the return journey, Chris said, "I thought you were laid asleep too. Weren't you trapped under a rock?" '' '' "Inside one, more accurately." said Merlin. "I loved her. Niume, the Lady of the Lake. I knew that she only went along with me to gain my secrets, and I Saw that I was to be by her betrayed, but that this betrayal was foredoomed and I must let it happen. So I taught her, and watched her, and loved her, the maker of Excalibur; until at last I taught her how to cast a Sleeper. I knew as I did that I signed my own doom, but I knew also I was needed at the end of the world, and I could not lay myself asleep, and one who loved me would never entomb me." '' '' Sadness was in his voice. "So she bound me into the substance of the rock, spoke the words that cast a Sleeper, words no other knew besides me. And I felt bitter sleep come over me, and I heard her happy laughter as I fell into suspension. For many ages I dreamed on, until at last one day I woke. I had known that I would; for I taught her the words that I knew would only keep me until certain things had happened. Then I smashed the tomb assunder, rose out of my stony prison; but I could not waken Him without another, and so I perforce have since awaited." '' '' "For me." '' '' "Yes, child, for the Dreamer. For the one who bilocates inside his sleep, walking in Lindon while dreaming in New England." '' '' "Were you really born of an Airish Man? Without a father?" '' '' "I was." Merlin answered. "But not of an incubus. Of a being far stranger. The last of the Rational Plants. They died in the Deluge, those ancient plants, the trees that walked, the berries that spoke, the blossoms that sang. They were creatures, even as you and I; they survive now only in protected places concealed from the mortal worlds. They begat by fruit and seed, and from these grew other plants alike them. The last of these old speaking bushes felt in him that he was dying, and he pled with his Creator that his race should still yet linger. Then God bade him grow one last berry, and the dying bush, only a few blackened leaves yet clinging to its’ withered stems, brought forth a red and gorgeous berry. A maiden passed, a human girl ate the berry, and she conceived, she bore a son. I was him. I was that child." '' '' "You're--half plant." breathed Chris. '' '' "That is why I am a wizard." Merlin answered. "I speak to plants, and they respond. I speak to nature, and I have authority to rouse it. Not as mighty as those singers of the far and ancient Northland, but still enough to become magician." '' '' They stood as he spoke before the gates of ancient iron. How they had travelled so fast Chris did not know; but he knew what he must do. In his hand he was now holding a large and intricate key of gold set with many gems: holding out the jewelled key he inserted it into the great black lock. With a sound like the rolling of great stones one over another the tumblers turned, and the hinges creaked, and rust broke off of them as they groaned apart. Through the open gates they passed. '' '' "Go ahead of me." the wizard breathed. "The guardian will slay all who approach the horn. Even my power cannot match him." '' '' The gates led, not up onto the height, but into it. A great grey mouth yawned in the rock. Trees leaned over it, and green grass reached up to its portals. They passed inside. At last they peered over a lip of stone, and saw a mighty cave, and in the cave a host of sleeping men in armour that was part Roman and part Saxon: hauberks of mail and breastplates and pauldrons on their shoulders, and helmets conical and helmets with Roman crests and cheekguards sheathed their heads. Mighty lances and axes with great double blades, and swords five feet long, and broadswords, and short Roman swords; square Roman shields, and long wooden Saxon shields, all manner of strange devices blazoned on them, lay beside them, as if ready to be grasped in an instant. In a circle they lay, their heads inward, and upon a throne amid this ring above all the others sat a King asleep. Hundreds of white horses stood unmoving outside the circle. Far more steeds than there were knights. '' '' "There." whispered Merlin. Chris looked to the right. Between sleepers and steeds a dragon lay, violet and bronze, great bronze wings furled along his back, his violet scales tipped with red, one purple eye open. Before his grey nostrils lay a great sword, sheathed in stone, in a block of red marble; and red was both blade and hilt. Above it hung a magnificent horn all red, edged with interwoven gold. '' '' "Draw the sword before you blow the horn." Merlin bade him. "For that is the sword of Galahad, which I forged for the Quest of the Holy Grail; but Galahad rests in peace, and comes only when the last trumpet blows. Go. The dragon will not sense you, but I must slay him while he is stunned from the sound of the horn." '' '' Timidly Christopher ventured out on the floor. The dragon twitched one ear. It could nether see nor sense him, but he was still more terrified than he had ever been even in nightmares. When a pebble crunched under his feet he cringed, but he heard no echo, and wondered if the magic shirt quenched all sound he made. Now the marble block was in front of him. It was dull red, veined and marbled with brilliant crimson and with gold ore, the most beautiful stone he had ever seen. The sword had a hilt of curling gold and red metals, and red gems burned in it like fire, and the red metal of the blade was a soft and luminous hue. Gripping the hilt he drew it from its’ sheath. It was so heavy he rested it on the block of stone as he picked up the horn. The funnel was bordered with red metal, and gold ran in intricate patterns up it, but underneath it was made of the horn of a ram. He set it to his lips and blew. '' '' The sound that thundered through that cave was so great it would wake the very dead themselves. Rocks snapped. Chunks of stone dropped from the ceiling, to smash soundlessly upon the floor. Both the dragon's eyes popped open, its head rearing backward in pain. Merlin moved like fire. He was beside Chris in an instant, seizing the heavy sword and driving it full into the unarmoured neck of the monster. Power lanced down the sword like lightning. The dragon reeled, lashing and sprawling, gusts of fire escaping from the wound. Then at last it fell still. '' '' The sleepers were stirring. Men arose as if pulled by strings, phantoms all of them, all of them were ghosts. Upon his throne the King stirred. '' '' “Is he….Owain?” Where the name had come from Chris did not know; there was a more famous name that he knew, but he couldn’t recall it… '' '' "Nay," the monarch boomed, "King Arthur. Well hast thou blown. The fool before thee blew the horn before the sword, and bare escaped with life from the guardian. Let my Table Round gather from the places they are laid, who fell around me in my last battle, from Glastonbury and Craig-y-Dinas, Llyn Llydaw the Snowdon Mount, underneath the Sewenshields: let those now led by Pellinore, by Launcelot and Kay and Gawain come to ride forth under Arthur!" '' The lovely warmth was only a memory by Monday. It was cool and gloomy, though not cold: in fact so humid the forest steamed like a jungle. Root looked rather grumpy when he showed up. “It is far too damp.” he grumbled. “I found ''mushrooms growing in my cellar! And then of course I had to get the stove going to dry out the house.” “One of the few advantages of oil heating.” Mom laughed. “The strawberries are beginning to ripen.” Root said to the boys. “Ronnie is doubtless bagging his first harvest; so will be Nuncle Jimmy, if I do not miss my guess.” “Oh, Mr. Root.” said Chris. “I Googled the Sleeping Heros legends, and I counted over 33.” “I do not understand, a ‘google’?” “Oh, sorry.” laughed the boys. “Don’t you even have a computer?” “I leave the comprehension of the new machinery to my brother. Ilmarinen always was more apt in such things. I presume you are speaking of their searching tool?” “Uh…yeah. It’s a search engine. They named it Google. So when you’ve looked up something you’ve Googled it.” “An intriguing linguistic development.” said Root thoughtfully. “But I should have thought your Dreams would have solved your question. How many Sleepers have you seen arise?” “Uhh…some happened when I wasn’t dreaming.” “England has no less than four different locations sporting legends of King Arthur asleep.” said Root. “Several other legends repeat themselves, suggesting a variation and misapplication in the telling of a single legend. As the aforementioned multiple Arthur sites are merely the tombs of one or another of his knights, I counted them as one. Nor did I count my own land’s legend, Väinämöinen; for he never went asleep, but sailed into the West, along the Straight Road.” “Can you tell us about that?” “Not until literature, and not a long story: we have other writings to study.” Accordingly when the time came Root settled back in his chair and took off his glasses. Without them he looked somehow different: more powerful, and majestic, and not funny or owlish at all. “It is a common theme in all of Northern European folklore and tales that with the coming of Christian light, the things of old faded away. In Iceland, the Airish Men died one by one. In the North the heathen powers often waged bitter war: foolishly, for by so doing they drew on themselves the gigantic power of the Church. Others, such as the French and German fairies, being wiser, amended themselves and their powers until the Church no longer burned them with Her approach: and then you have the fairy godmothers. In like manner did Väinämöinen; or at least he tried. He sang no longer songs of power, but only songs of lore and healing, and left the warfare to the Christians, the battles to the holy priests. So he was revered as sage and teacher, and men would come to him for answers. For he had always held that there was only one God, the Creator, mighty Ukko. “But it came to pass that Väinämöinen made a great and grievous error, falling into evil custom, advice bestowing flawed with wrongness. A maiden out in the fields and pastures saw a magic lingon-berry, glowing red and on stem dancing; it rolled itself up on her fingers, kissed her lips already thirsting, and she bit and down it swallowed. And the berry made her pregnant, and a child grew within her: driven out by her cold parents, who thought the child was born of Hell, Marietta wandered far seeking shelter to give birth in. A farmer let her use his stable, and there the fatherless boy was born. The farmer took her to her parents, who relented and consulted the village’s head leader, as he was also catechist. He was in doubt as to whether the boy was a human or a fiend, and sought the words of Väinämöinen.” Root, as usual, at this point began to chant. Most unlike the other chants the boys had heard from him, this one he sang very slowly and sombrely, as if it was a dirge, or as if recounting something he drew pain from remembering. ''“Since the berry is his father; '' ''Let him lie upon the heather, '' ''Take the young child to the marshes, '' ''Dash his head against the birch-tree!” '' ''Then the child of Mariatta, '' ''Only two weeks old, made answer: '' ''"O, thou ancient Vainamoinen, '' ''Son of Folly and Injustice, '' ''Senseless hero of the Northland, '' ''Falsely hast thou rendered judgment. '' ''In thy years, for greater follies, '' ''Greater sins and misdemeanors, '' ''Thou wert not unjustly punished. '' ''In thy former years of trouble, '' ''When thou gavest thine own brother, '' ''For thy selfish life a ransom, '' ''Thus to save thee from destruction, '' ''Then thou wert not sent to Swamp-land '' ''To be murdered for thy follies. '' ''In thy former years of sorrow, '' ''When the beauteous Aino perished '' ''In the deep and boundless blue-sea, '' ''To escape thy persecutions, '' ''Then thou wert not evil-treated, '' ''Wert not banished by thy people." '' '' '' Root resumed normal speech. “Putting down the tiny infant, Väinämöinen stood with stricken face; for he knew at once his error, recognized his bitter folly. For he had long since forgotten every child conceived by woman is at least half-human and as such should be baptized and not murdered. Then sang he him unto the child, and with wise eyes the child stared back, ancient sage and little infant faced each other in the forest. ''“Baby, thou dost me injustice '' ''Just as I have done unto thee. '' ''Aino never I persuited '' ''Aino drowned in her self-pity! '' ''I it was that did restore her '' ''Sang from her her fishy burden. '' ''Though thou hast an early speaking, '' ''Thou hast not yet learned wisdom! '' ''There are things that thou know nought of '' ''There are things thou hast not heard of. '' ''But in what I spake unto thee '' ''I have fallen into error '' ''I have fallen into danger '' ''I have brought the Church upon me. '' ''For infanticide She frowns on '' ''And such I have advocated!” '' “And so it was.” Root went on. “For he found after this that his songs were losing power, that his words would work no longer. For he had his power forfeit by the crime of foul abortion, even when was uncommitted. At last he took the boat of copper, the bronzen vessel he had made him, the one for whom he searched the world to find the words for his boat-building. On this boat as sun was setting he bade farewell to all his people, to his land of Kalevala, the countless lakes of Sariola. ''“Suns may rise and set upon thee '' ''Rise and set for generations, '' ''When the North will learn my teachings, '' ''Will recall my wisdom-sayings, '' ''Hungry for the true religion. '' ''Then will Suomi need my coming, '' ''Watch for me at dawn of morning, '' ''That I may bring back the Sampo, '' ''Bring anew the harp of joyance, '' ''Bring again the golden moonlight, '' ''Bring again the silver sunshine, '' ''Peace and plenty to the Northland." '' ''Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, '' ''In his copper-banded vessel, '' ''Left his tribe in Kalevala, '' ''Sailing o'er the rolling billows, '' ''Sailing through the azure vapors, '' ''Sailing through the dusk of evening, '' ''Sailing to the fiery sunset, '' ''To the higher-landed regions, '' ''To the lower verge of heaven; '' ''Quickly gained the far horizon, '' ''Gained the purple-colored harbor. '' ''There his bark be firmly anchored, '' ''Rested in his boat of copper; '' ''But be left his harp of magic, '' ''Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, '' ''To the lasting joy of Suomi.” '' “So he sailed off?” said Stephen. “And what happened to the baby?” “He became the Wizard Merlin.” said Chris. Root gave him a sharp, penetrating glance. “Is that what happened to him.” he said softly. “I had not known…For your handwriting assignment, Chris, I want you to write me down every single one of your Dreams. The Men in Brown need them. Arheled is not always around to tell us things.” “I’ll get around to it.” Chris moaned. “It must be started by tomorrow.” said Root firmly. Back to The Men in Brown